"Nay, I think it ought to be recognized for a pleasure. Here she comes.—Well, Rotha, was the walk pleasant?"
"No."
"Indeed? Why not?"
"How could it be, Mr. Digby? Not a bit of good air, nor anything pleasant to see; just all hot and dirty."
"I thought you said there were some flowers in front of some of the shops?" her mother said.
"Yes, mother; but they looked melancholy."
"Did they?" said Mr. Digby smiling. "Suppose you go with me to-morrow, and I will take you to the Park."
"O! will you?" said Rotha with suddenly opening eyes. "Can you?"
"If Mrs. Carpenter permits."
The next day being again warm, Mr. Digby did not come for Rotha till the afternoon was far advanced. They took then one of the street cars, which would bring them to the Park entrance. The way was long and the drive slow. It was also silent, of necessity; and both parties had leisure for thoughts, as well as material enough.
Rotha was at first divided between the pleasure of seeing things, and a somewhat uneasy reflection upon her own appearance. She was not in general a self-conscious child; very much the reverse; but to-day she was with Mr. Digby, and she had an exalted idea of the requirements of everything even remotely connected with him. She was going in his company; under his charge; how did she look? She was not satisfied on that point. Mr. Digby himself was always so nice and perfect in his dress, she said to herself; she ought to be very nice to go with him. Truly she had put on the best she had; a white cambrick frock; it was clean and white; but Rotha had none but her everyday brown straw hat, and she knewthatwas not "smart"; and her dress, she pondered it as she went along, she was sure it was very old-fashioned indeed. Certainly it was not made like the dresses of other girls of her own age, whom she saw in the car or on the sidewalk. Theirs were ruffled; hers was plain; theirs generally stood out in an imposing manner; while her own clung in slim folds around her slim little person. She concluded that she could not be in any degree what Mrs. Marble called "stylish." The exact meaning of that word indeed Rotha could not define; undefinedly she felt it to be something vastly desirable. She decided in her own mind that Mr. Digby was stylish; which it is true proved that the young girl had a nice feeling for things; since the fact, which was undoubted, was entirely unaccompanied by anything in matter or manner of wearing which could take the vulgar eye. Would he dislike going in public, she wondered, with a little figure like herself? She hoped not, she thought not; but thought it with a curious independence, which I am afraid was really born of pride though it took the semblance of good sense.
Gradually the interest of other figures made Rotha forget her own. They came out from the poor part of the city where she dwelt; streets grew wide and shops lofty and imposing; equipages drove along, outstripping the slow-going car; and in them, what ladies, and what gentlemen, and what little girls now and then! This was the wonderful New York, at which she had now and then had a peep; this was something five hundred miles removed from Jane Street. What sort of human beings were these? and what sort of life did they live? and did money make all the difference, or was there some more intrinsic and essential distinction between them and their fellows in Abingdon Square? At any rate, how very, very much better off they were!
Mr. Digby's musings had much less to do with the surface of things. I doubt indeed if he saw ought that was before his eyes, all the way to the Park. Not even Rotha herself; and yet she was the main subject of his cogitations. He was feeling that his kindness to Mrs. Carpenter had brought him into difficulties. The very occasion for this journey to the Park was bad enough; so disagreeable in fact that he did not like to look at it, and hardly had looked at it until now; he was going as a man goes into battle; and a rain of bullets, he thought, would have been easier to face. How he should accomplish his task he had as yet no idea. But supposing it done; and supposing all the trouble past for which he had to prepare Rotha; what then? What was he to do with the charge he had assumed? He, a young man without a family, with no proper home in the country of his abode, what was he to do with the care of a girl like Rotha? how should he manage it? If she had been a little child it would have been a more simple affair; but fourteen years old is not at all far removed from seventeen, and eighteen. Where shouldherhome be? and her future sphere of life? and where was the promised womanly protection under which he was to place her? He gave a glance at the girl. She was good material to work upon, that was one alleviation of his task; he had had some practical proof of it, and now, more carefully than ever before, he looked for the outward signs and tokens in feature and expression. And as Rotha had once declared that Mr. Digby's eyes were handsome, he now privately returned the compliment to hers. Yes, this child, who had an awkward appearance as to her figure—he did not know then that the effect was due to her dress—she had undoubtedly fine eyes. Poor complexion, he said to himself after a second glance, but good eyes. And not merely in shape and hue; they were full of speculation, full of thought, full of the possibilities of passion and feeling. There was character in them; and so there was in the well formed, well closed mouth.Therewas refinement too; the lines were not those of an uncultured, low- conditioned nature; they were fine and beautiful. It had never occurred to Mr. Digby before to think how Rotha promised to be in the matter of looks; although he had many a time caught the gleam of intelligent fire in the course of her recitations and his lesson giving, and once or twice had seen that passion of one kind or another was at work. He read now very plainly that his charge, to go back to the old philosophy of human nature which reckoned man to be composed of the four elements, had a great deal of the fire and the air in her composition, with little of the heaviness of the earth, and as little as possible of the lymphatic quality. It made his task the more interesting, and in so far lightened it; but it made it at the same time vastly more difficult. Here was a sensitive, quick, passionate, independent nature to deal with; how ever should he deal with it? And how ever was he to execute his purpose to- day? the purpose with which he had brought her, poor child, to this walk in the Park. Was it not rather cruel, to begin a time of great pain with a taste of exquisite pleasure? Mr. Digby hardly knew what he would do, when he left the car with his charge and entered the Park.
They went in at the great Fifth Avenue entrance; and for a few minutes he was engaged in piloting himself and her through the crowd of coming and going carriages; but when they reached quiet going and a secure footpath, he looked at her. It smote him. Such an expression of awakened delight was in her face; such keen curiosity, such simplicity and fulness of enjoyment. Rotha was at a self-conscious age, but she had forgotten herself; two years old is not more free from self-recollection. They walked along slowly, the girl reviewing everything in the lively show before her; lips parting sometimes for a smile, but with no leisure for a word. Her companion watched her. They walked on and on; turned now hither and now thither; Rotha remained in a maze, only mechanically following where she was led.
It was a fine afternoon, and all the world was out. Carriages, riders, foot travellers; everywhere crowds of people. Where was Mr. Digby going to make the communication he had come here to make? He doubted about it now, but if he spoke, where should it be? Not in this crowd, where any minute some acquaintance might see him and speak to him. With some trouble he sought out a resting place for Rotha from whence she could have a good view of one angle of a much travelled drive, and at the same time both of them were in a sort hid away from observation. Here they sat down; but if Rotha's feet might rest, her companion's mind was further and further from any such point of comfort. They had exchanged hardly any words since they set out; and now the difficulty of beginning what he had to say seemed greater than ever. There was a long silence. Rotha broke it; she did not know that it had been long.
"Mr. Digby—there are a great many things I do not understand."
"My case too, Rotha."
"Yes, but you understand a great many things that I don't."
"What is troubling you now, with a sense of ignorance?"
"I see in a great many carriages two gentlemen dressed just alike, sitting together; they are on the back seat always, and they always have their arms folded, just alike; what are they?"
"Not gentlemen, Rotha; they are footmen, or grooms."
"What's the difference?"
"Between footmen and grooms?"
"No, no; between a gentleman and a man that isn't a gentleman?"
"You asked me that once before, didn't you?"
"Yes; but I don't make it out."
"Why do you try?"
"Why Mr. Digby, I like to understand things."
"Quite right, too, Rotha. Well—the difference is more in the feelings and manners than in anything else."
"Not in the dress?"
"Certainly not. Though it is not like a gentleman to be improperly dressed."
"What is 'improperly dressed.'"
"Not nice and neat."
"Nice and neat—cleanand neat, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Then a gentleman may have poor clothes on?"
"Of course."
"Can anybody bepoorand be a gentleman?"
"Notanybody, but a gentleman may be poor, certainly, without ceasing to be a gentleman."
"But if he was poor to begin with—could he be a gentleman then?"
"Yes, Rotha," said her friend smiling at her; "money has nothing to do with the matter. Except only, that without money it is difficult for a boy to be trained in the habits and education of a gentleman."
"Education?" said Rotha.
"Yes."
"You said, 'feeling and manners.'"
"Well, yes. But you can see for yourself, that without education it would be hardly possible that manners should be exactly what they ought to be. A gentleman should give to everybody just that sort of attention and respect which is due; just the right words and the right tone and the fitting manner; how can he, if he does not understand his own position in the world and that of other people? and why the one and the other are what they are."
"Then I don't see how poor people can be ladies and gentlemen," saidRotha discontentedly.
"Being poor has nothing to do with it, except so far."
"But that's far enough, Mr. Digby."
He heard the disappointed ambition in the tone of the girl's words.
"Rotha," he said kindly, "whoever will follow the Bible rules of good manners, will be sure to be right, as far as that goes."
"Can one follow them without being a Christian?"
"Well no, hardly. You see, the very root of them is love to one's neighbour; and one cannot have that, truly and universally, without loving Christ first."
"Then are all gentlemen Christians?"
The young man laughed a little at her pertinacity.
"What are you so much concerned about it, Rotha?"
"I was just thinking."—
And apparently she had a good deal of thinking to do; for she was quite silent for some time. And Mr. Digby on his part went back to his problem, how was he to tell Rotha what he had promised to tell her? From their somewhat elevated and withdrawn position, the moving scene before them was most bright and gay. An endless procession of equipages—beautiful carriages, stately horses, pompous attendants, luxurious pleasure-takers; one after another, and twos and threes following each other, a continuous stream; carriages of all sorts, landaus, Victorias, clarences, phaetons, barouches, close coaches, dog carts, carryalls, gigs, buggies. Now and then a country affair, with occupants to match; now a plain wagon with a family of children having a good time; now an old gentleman and his wife taking a sober airing; then a couple of ladies half lost in the depths of their cushions, and not having at all a good time, to judge by their looks; and then a young man with nobody but himself and a pair of fast trotting horses, which had, and needed, all his attention; and then a whirl of the general thing, fine carriages, fine ladies, fine gentlemen, fine servants and fine horses; in all varieties of combination. It was very pretty; it was very gay; the young foliage of early summer was not yet discouraged and dulled by the heat and the dust; the air was almost country sweet, and flowers were brilliant in one of the plantations within sight. How the world went by!—
Mr. Digby had half forgotten it and everything else, in his musings, when he was aroused, and well nigh startled, by a question from Rotha.
"Mr. Digby—can I help my will?"
He looked down at her. "What do you mean, Rotha?"
"I mean, can I help my will? I asked mother one day, and she said I had better ask you."
Rotha's eyes came up to his face with their query; and whatever it might import, he saw that she was in earnest. Grave and intent the girl's fine dark eyes were, and came up to his eyes with a kind of power of search.
"I do not think I understand you."
"Yes, you do. If I do not like something—do not want to be something— can I help my will?"
"What do you not want to be?" said Mr. Digby, waiving this severe question in mental philosophy.
"Must I tell you?"
"Not if you don't like; but I think it might help me to get at your difficulty, and so to get at the answer you want."
"Mr. Digby, can a person want to do something, and yet not be willing?"
"Yes," said he, in growing surprise.
"Then, can hehelpnot being willing?"
"What is the case in hand, Rotha? I am wholly in the dark. I do not know what you would be at."
To come nearer to the point was not Rotha's wish and had not been her purpose; she hesitated. However, the subject was one which exercised her, and the opportunity of discussing her difficulty with Mr. Digby was very tempting. She hesitated, but she could not let the chance go.
"Mother wishes I would be a Christian," she said low and slowly. "And I wish I could, to please her; but I do not want to. Can I help my will? and I am not willing."
There was a mixture of defiance and desire in this speech which instantly roused the somewhat careless attention of the young man beside her. Anything that touched the decision of any mortal in the great question of everlasting life, awoke his sympathies always to fullest exercise. It was not his way, however, to shew what he felt; and he answered her with the same deliberate calm as hitherto. Nobody would have guessed the quickened pulses with which he spoke.
"Why do you not want to be a Christian, Rotha?"
"I do not know," she answered slowly. "I suppose, I want to be free."
"Go on a little bit, and tell me what you mean by being 'free.'"
"Why—I mean, I suppose,—IknowI mean, that I want to do what I like."
"You are taking the wrong way for that."
"Why, I could not do what I liked if I was a Christian, Mr. Digby?"
"A Christian, on the contrary, is the only person in this world, so far as I know, who can do what he likes."
"Why, do you?" said Rotha, looking at him.
"Yes," said he smiling. "Always."
"But I thought—"
"You thought a Christian was a sort of a slave."
"Yes. Or a servant. A servant he is; and a servant is not free. He has laws to mind."
"And you think, by refusing the service you get rid of the laws? That's a mistake. The laws are over you and binding on you, just the same, whether you accept them or not; and you have got to meet the consequences of not obeying them. Did you never think of that?"
"But it is different if Ipromisedto obey them," said Rotha.
"How different?"
"If I promised, I must do it."
"If you do not promise you must take the consequences of not doing it.You cannot get from under the law."
"But how can you do whatever you like, Mr. Digby?"
"There comes in your other mistake," said he. "I can, because I am free.It is you who are the slave."
"I? How, Mr. Digby?"
"You said just now, you wished you could be a Christian, but you could not. Are you free to do what you wish?"
"But can I help my will?"
The gentleman took out of his pocket a slim little New Testament which always went about with him, and put it into Rotha's hands open at a certain place, bidding her read.
"'Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'"
Rotha stopped and looked up at her companion.
"Go on," he bade her; and she read further.
"'They answered him, We be Abraham's seed, and were never in bondage to any man: how sayest thou, Ye shall be made free?
"'Jesus answered them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin. And the servant abideth not in the house forever: but the Son abideth ever. If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha looked at the words, after she had done reading.
"Mr. Digby," she said then again, "can I help my will?"
"No," said he, "for you are a poor bond-slave. But see what is written there. What you cannot do, Christ can."
"Why don't he do it, then?" she said defiantly.
"You have not asked him, or wished him to do it."
"But why shouldn't he do it without my asking, or wishing, if he can?"
"It is not his way. He says, 'Ask, and ye shall receive'; but he promises nothing to those who do not apply to him. And the application must be in good earnest too, Rotha; not the form of the thing, but the truth. 'Blessed are they thathunger and thirstafter righteousness; for they shall be filled.'"
"Then, if I asked him, could he change my will?"
"He says, he can make you free. It was one thing he came to do; to deliver people from the bondage of sin and the power of Satan."
"The power of Satan!" said Rotha. "I am not underhispower!"
"Certainly you are. There are only two parties in the world; two kingdoms; those who do not belong to the one, belong to the other."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, now much exercised, "I hate the devil as much as you do."
"Don't help, Rotha. 'From the power of Satan to God,' is the turn people take when they become Christians."
"What makes you think I am under his power?"
"Because I see you are not under the rule of Christ. And because I see you are doing precisely what Satan would have you do."
"What?" said Rotha.
"Refusing the Lord Jesus Christ, or putting off accepting him."
Rotha was silent. Her breast was heaving, her breath coming thick and short. Mr. Digby's conclusions were very disagreeable to her; but what could she say?
"I can't help my will," she said doggedly.
"You see you are not honest with yourself. You have just learned that there is a remedy for that difficulty."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, "how is it that you can do what you like?"
He smiled down at her, a pleasant, frank smile, which witnessed to the truth of his words and wrought more with Rotha than the words themselves; while the eyes that she admired rested on her with grave penetration.
"There is an old promise the Lord gave his people a great while ago; that in the new covenant which he would make with them in Christ, he would write all his laws in their hearts. He has done that for me."
"You mean—" said Rotha.
"Yes, go on, and say what you think I mean."
"You mean,—that what you like to do, is just what God likes you to do."
"And never anything else, Rotha," he said gravely.
"Well, Mr. Digby," said Rotha slowly, "after all, you have given up yourself."
"And very glad to be rid of that personage."
"But I don't want to give up myself."
"I see."
And there followed a long silence. Mr. Digby did not wish to add anything to his words, and Rotha could not to hers; and they both sat in meditation, until the girl's lighter humour got away from the troublesome subject altogether. Watching her, Mr. Digby saw the pleased play of feature which testified to her being again absorbed in the scene before her; her eye was alive, her lip moved with a coming and going smile.
"It amuses you, does it not?" he said.
"O yes!" Rotha exclaimed with a long breath. "I wish mother could see it."
"She can," said Mr. Digby. "We will have a carriage and take her out. I don't know why I never thought, of it before."
"A carriage? For mother? And bring her here?" said Rotha breathless.
"Yes, to-morrow, if the day is good. It will refresh her. And meanwhile,Rotha, I am afraid we must leave this scene of enchantment."
Rotha had changed colour with excitement and delight; now she rose up with another deep sigh.
"There are more people than ever," she remarked; "more carriages. Mr.Digby, I should think they would be perfectly happy?"
"What makes you think they are not?" said he amused.
"They don't look so."
"They are accustomed to it. They come every day or two."
"Does that make it less pleasant?"
"It takes off the novelty, you know. Most pleasures are less pleasant when the novelty is gone."
"Why?"
Mr. Digby smiled again. "You never found it so?" he said.
"No. I remember when we were at Medwayville, everything I liked to do, I liked it more the more I did it."
"You are of a happy temperament. What did you use to like to do there?"
"O a load of things!" said Rotha sighing. "I liked our old dog, and my kittens; and riding about; and I liked very much going to the hay field and getting into the cart with father and riding home. And then—"
But Rotha's words stopped suddenly, and her companion looking down at her saw that her eyes were brimming full of tears, and her face flushed with the emotion which almost mastered her. A little kind pressure of the hand he held was all the answer he made; and then they made their way through the crowd and got into the cars to go home.
He had not discharged his commission; how could he? Things had taken a turn which made it almost impossible. It must be done another day. Poor child! The young man's mind was filled with sympathy and compassion, as he looked at Rotha sitting beside him and noted how her aspect had changed and brightened; just with this afternoon's pleasure and the new thoughts and mental stir and hope to which it had given rise. Poor child! what lay before her, that she dreamed not of, yet must face and meet inevitably. That in the near future; and beyond—what? No friend but himself in all the world; and how was he to take care of her? The young man felt a little pity for himself by the way. Truly, a girl of this sort, brimfull of mental capacity and emotional sensitiveness, was a troublesome legacy for a young man situated as he was. However, his own trouble got not much regard on the present occasion; for his heart was burdened with the sorrow and the tribulation coming upon these two, the mother and daughter. And these were but two, in a world full of the like and of far worse. He remembered how once, in the sight of the tears and sorrowing hearts around him and in view of the great flood of human miseries of which they were but instances and reminders, "Jesus wept;" and the heart of his servant melted in like compassion. But he shewed none of it, when he came with Rotha into her mother's presence again; he was calm and composed as always.
"Mrs. Carpenter," he said, as he found himself for a moment alone with her, Rotha having run off to change her dress,—"you did not tell me your sister's name. I think I ought to know it."
"Her name?" said Mrs. Carpenter starting and hesitating. What did he want to know her sister's name for? But Mr. Digby did not look as if he cared about knowing it; he had asked the question indifferently, and his face of careless calm reassured her. She answered him at last.
"Her name is Busby."
It was characteristic of Mr. Digby that his features revealed no quickening of interest at this; for he was acquainted with a Mrs. Busby, who was also the wife of a lawyer in the city. But he shewed neither surprise nor curiosity; he merely said in the same unconcerned manner and tone,
"There may be more Mrs. Busby's than one. What is her husband's name?"
"I forget—It begins with 'A.' I know; but I can't think of it. I can think of nothing but the name of that old New York baker they used to speak of—Arcularius."
"Will Archibald do?"
"That is it!"
Mr. Digby could hardly believe his ears. Mrs. Archibald Busby was very well known to him, and he was a welcome and tolerably frequent visiter at her house. Was it possible? he thought; was it possible? Could that woman be the sister of this? and such a sister? Nothing in her or in her house that he had seen, looked like it. He made neither remark nor suggestion however, but took quiet leave, after his wont, and went away; after arranging that a carriage should come the next day to take Mrs. Carpenter to the Park.
Mr. Digby had a great many thoughts during the next few days; some of which almost went to make Mrs. Carpenter in the wrong. The Mrs. Busby he knew was so very unexceptionable a lady; how could she be the black sheep of the story he had heard? Mrs. Carpenter might labour under a mistake, might she not? Yet facts are said to be stubborn things, and some facts were hard for the truth of the story. Mr. Digby was puzzled. He would perhaps have gone promptly to Mrs. Busby's home, to make observations with a keenness he had never thought worth while when there; but Mrs. Busby and all her family were out of town, spending the hot months at a watering place, or at several watering places. Meanwhile Mr. Digby had his unfulfilled commission to attend to.
Mrs. Carpenter went driving to the Park now every pleasant day; to the great admiration of Mrs. Marble, the wonderful refreshment of the sick woman herself, and the extravagant delight and pride of Rotha. She said she was sure her mother would get well now. But her mother's eye, as she said it, went to Mr. Digby's, with a warning admonition that he must neither be deceived nor lose time. He understood.
"I am going down to Staten Island to-morrow," he remarked. "Would you like to go with me, Rotha?"
"Staten Island?" she repeated.
"Yes. It is about an hour's sail from New York, or nearly; across the bay. You can become acquainted with the famous bay of New York."
"Is it famous?"
"For its beauty."
"Oh I should like to go very much, Mr. Digby, if it was as ugly as it could be!"
"Then when your mother comes from the Park in the morning, we will go."
Rotha was full of delight. But her mother, she thought, was very sober during that morning's drive; she tried in vain to brighten her up. Again and again Mrs. Carpenter's eyes rested on her with a lingering, tender sorrowfulness, which was not their wont.
"Mother, is anything the matter?" she asked at length.
"I am thinking of you, my child."
"Then don't think of me! What about me?"
"I am grieved that a shadow should ever come over your gay spirits. Yet I am foolish."
"What makes you think of shadows? I am going to be always as gay as I am to-day."
"That is impossible."
"Why?"
"It is not the way of this world."
"Does trouble come to everybody?"
"Yes. At some time."
"Well, mother dear, you can just wait till it comes. There is no shadow over me now, at any rate. If you were only well, I should be happy enough."
"I shall never be well, my child."
"O you say that just because a shadow has come over you. I wish I knew where it comes from; I would scare it away. Mother, mother, look, look!— see that little carriage with the little horses, and the children driving! Oh—!"
Rotha's expression of intense admiration is not to be given on paper.
"Shetland ponies, those are," said her mother.
"What are Shetland ponies?"
"Ponies that come from Shetland."
"And do they never grow any bigger?"
"No."
"How jolly!"
"Rotha, that is a boy's word, I think."
"If it is good for a boy, why isn't it good for me?"
"I do not know that it is good for a boy. But a lady is bound to be more particular in what she says and does."
"More than a gentleman?"
"In some ways, yes."
"I don't understand in what ways. Right is right, and wrong is wrong, whether one is a boy or a girl."
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. What would bring just notions, who would teach proper ways, to her inquisitive child when she should be left motherless? Rotha perceived the deep concern which gathered in her mother's eyes again; and anew endeavoured by lively talk to chase it away. In vain. Mrs. Carpenter came home tired and exhausted.
"I think she was worrying about something," Rotha said, when soon after she and her friend were on their way to Whitehall. "She does, now and then."
Mr. Digby made no answer; and Rotha's next keen question was,
"You look as if you knew what she was worrying about, Mr. Digby?"
"I think I do."
"Couldn't I know what it was?"
"Perhaps. But you must wait."
It was easy to wait. Even the omnibus ride to Whitehall was charming to Rotha's inexperienced eyes; and when she was on board the ferry boat and away from the quays and the city, and the lively waters of the bay were rolling up all around her, the girl's enjoyment grew intense. She had never seen such an extent of water before, she had no idea of the real look of the waves; a hundred thousand questions came crowding and surging up in her mind, like the broken billows down below her. In her mind; they got no further; merely to have them rise was a delight; she would find the answer to them some day. For the present it was enough to watch the changing forms and varying colours of the water, and to drink in the fresh breeze which brought life and strength with it from the sea. Yet now and then a question was too urgent and must be satisfied.
"Mr. Digby, nobody could paint water, could they?"
"Yes."
"How could they? It is all changing, every instant; it won't stand still to be drawn."
"Most things can be done, if one is only in earnest enough."
"But how can this?"
"Not without a great deal of study and pains. A man must watch the play of the waves and the shapes they take, and the colours of the different parts in any given sort of weather, until he has got them by heart; and then he can put the lines and the colours on the canvas. If he has the gift to do it, that is."
"What has the weather to do with it? Different colours?"
"Certainly. The lights and shadows vary with every change of the sky; and the colours vary."
"Then a person must be very much in earnest," said Rotha, "ever to get it all."
"There is no doing great things in any line without being very much in earnest. The start isn't the thing; it is the steady pull that tries."
"Can you draw, Mr. Digby?"
"Yes, a little."
Again Rotha was all absorbed in what lay before and around her; getting unconscious education through her eyes, as they received for the first time the images of so many new things. To the people on board she gave scarcely any heed at all.
Arrived at Brighton, Mr. Digby's first care was to give his charge and himself some refreshment. He took Rotha to a hotel and ordered a simple dinner. Then he desired to have a little wagon harnessed up, and putting the delighted girl into it, he drove to the sea shore and let her feast her eyes on the incoming waves and breaking surf. He himself was full of one thought, waiting for the moment when he could say to her what he had to say; but he was forced to wait a good while. He had made a mistake, he found, in choosing this precise direction for their drive. Rotha's overwhelming pleasure and entranced absorption for some time could not be broken in upon. She was too utterly happy to notice how different was her friend's absorption from her own; unless with a vague, passing perception, which she could not dwell upon.
At last her friend asked her if she would like a run upon the sand, the tide being then out. He drove up to a straggling bit of fence, tied his horse, and lifted Rotha out; who immediately ran down to the narrow beach and as near to the water as she dared; there stood still and looked. There was but a gentle surf that day, with the ebb tide; but to Rotha it was a scene of unparalleled might and majesty. She was drinking in pleasure, as one can at fourteen, with all the young susceptibilities fully alive and strong. Mr. Digby could not interrupt her. He threw himself down 011 a dry piece of sand, and waited; watching her, and watching with a sad sort of pleasure the everlasting rise and breaking of those curling billows. Things spiritual and material get very mixed up in such a mood; and anon the ocean became to Mr. Digby somehow identified with the sea of trouble the tides of which do overflow all this world. The breaking waves were but the constantly occurring and recurring bursts of misfortune and disaster which overtake everybody. Here it is, there it is, it is here again, it is always somewhere; ay, far as the eye can reach. Here is this child, now,—
"Mr. Digby, you are tired—you don't like it—you are just waiting for me," Rotha said suddenly, with delicate good feeling, coming to his side.
"I do like it, always. I am not tired, thank you, Rotha."
"But you are not taking pleasure in it now," she said gently.
"No. I was thinking, how full the world is of trouble."
"Why should you think that just now? You had better think, how full it is of pleasure. It's as full—it seems to me as full—as the very sea itself."
"Does your life have so much pleasure?"
"To-day—" said the girl, with a rapt look out to sea.
"And yet Rotha, it is for you I am troubled."
"For me!" she said with a surprised look at him.
"Yes. Suppose you sit down here for a few minutes, and let me talk to you."
"I don't want to talk about trouble just now," she said; sitting down however as he bade her.
"I am very sorry to talk about it now, or at any time; but I must. Can you bear trouble, Rotha?"
There was something tender and grave and sympathizing in his look and tone, which somehow made the girl's heart beat quicker. That there was real gravity of tidings beneath such a manner, she felt intuitively; though she strove not to believe it.
"I don't know,—" she said in answer to his question. "Ihaveborne it."
"This is more than you have borne yet."
"I had a father, once, Mr. Digby,—" she said with a curious self- restraint that did not lack dignity.
How could he answer her? He did not find words. And instead, there came over him such a rush of tenderness in view of what was surely to fall upon the girl, in the present and in the future, that for a moment he was unmanned. To hide the corresponding rush of water to his eyes, Mr. Digby was fain to bow his face in the hand which rested on his knees. Neither the action nor the cause of it escaped Rotha's shrewdness and awakened sense of fear, but it silenced her at the same time; and it was not till a little interval had passed, though before Mr. Digby had lifted up his head, that the silence became intolerable to her. She heard the sea and saw the breakers no more, or only with a feeling of impatience.
"Well," she said at last, in a changed voice, hard, and dry,—"why don't you tell me what it is?" If she was impolite, she did not mean it, and her friend knew she did not mean it.
"I hardly can, Rotha," he answered sorrowfully.
"I know what you mean," she said, "but it isn't true. You think so, but it isn't true."
"What are you speaking of?"
"You know. I know what you mean; you are speaking of—mother!" The word came out with difficulty and only by stern determination. "It is not true, Mr. Digby."
"What is not true, Rotha?"
"You know. It is not true!" she repeated vehemently.
"But Rotha, my child, what if it were true?"
"You know it couldn't be true," she said, fixing on him a pair of eyes almost wild in their intensity. "It couldn't be true. What would become of me?"
"I will take care of you, always."
"You!" she retorted, with a scorn supreme and only matched by the pain with which she spoke. "What are you? Itcouldn'tbe, Mr. Digby."
"Listen to me, child. Rotha, I have come here to talk to you about it." He saw how full the girl's eyes were growing, of tears just swelling and ready to burst forth; and he stopped. But she impatiently dashed them right and left.
"I don't want to talk about it. It's no use, here or anywhere else. I would like to go home."
"Not yet. Before you go home I want you to be quite composed, and to have good command of yourself, so that you may not distress your mother. She cannot bear it. Therefore she asked me to tell you, because she dreaded to see your suffering. Can you bear it and hide it, Rotha, bravely, for her sake?"
"Sheasked you to tell me?" cried the girl; and Mr. Digby never forgot the face of wild agony with which she looked at him. He answered quietly, "Yes;" though his heart was bleeding for her.
"She thinks—"
"She knows how it must be. It is nothing new, or strange, or sorrowful, to her,—except only for you. But in her love for you, she greatly dreads to see your sorrow. Do you think, Rotha, for her sake, you can bear up bravely, and be quiet, and not shew what you feel? For her sake?"
He doubted if the girl rightly heard him. She looked at him, indeed, while he spoke, as if listening; but her face was white, or rather livid, and her eyes seemed to be gazing into despair.
"I do not think it can be, Mr. Digby," she said. "She don't look like it.And what would become of me?
"I will take faithful care of you, Rotha, as long as you live, and I live."
"You are nothing!" she said contemptuously. But then followed a cry which curdled Mr. Digby's blood. It was not a piercing shriek, yet it was a prolonged cry, pointed and sharpened with pain and heavy with despair. One such wail, and the girl dropped her face in her hands and sat motionless. Her companion would rather have seen sobs and tears; he did not know what to do with her. The soft beat and wash of the waves sounded drearily in the silence. Mr. Digby waited. Nothing but time, he knew, can cover the roughness of life's rough places with its moss and lichen of patience and memory. Comfort was not to be spoken of, not here. He comprehended now why Mrs. Carpenter had shrank from telling the tidings herself. But the day was wearing away; they must go home; the burden, however heavy, must be lifted and carried.——
"Rotha—my child—" he said after a long interval.
No answer.
"Rotha, my child, cannot you look up and speak to me? Rotha—my poor little Rotha—it is very heavy for you! But won't you make it as light as you can for your mother?"
The child writhed away from under the hand he had gently laid on her shoulder; but uttered no sound.
"Rotha—we must go home presently. Do you know, your mother will be very anxious to see you. She is expecting us now, I dare say."
It came then, the burst of tears which he had dreaded and yet half longed for. The girl turned a little more from him and flung herself down on the sand, and there wept as he had never seen anybody weep before. With all the passion of an intense nature, and all the self abandonment of an ungoverned nature, sobbing such sobs as shook her whole frame, and with loud weeping which could not be restrained into silence. Better it should not be, Mr. Digby thought; better she should be allowed to exhaust herself so that very fatigue should induce quiet. But to the sitter-by it was unspeakably painful; a scene never to be recalled without a profound prayer, like Noah's, I fancy, after the deluge, that the like might never come again.
And happily, nature did exhaust herself; and just because the passion of sobs and tears was so violent, it did yield after a time, as strength gave way. But it lasted fearfully long. However, at last Rotha grew quieter, and then still; and not till then Mr. Digby spoke again. He spoke as if all this had been an interlude not noticed by him.
"Rotha, my child, can you gather up your courage and be quiet and be brave now?"
She hesitated, and then in a smothered voice said, "I'm not brave."
"I think you can be."
"I wish—I could die," she said slowly.
"But what we have to do, is to live and act for others. Yes, it would often seem a great deal easier to die; but we have something to do in the world. You have something to do. Your mother's comfort, and even the prolonging of her stay with us, may depend on your quietness and self- command. For love of her, can you be strong and do it?"
"I am not strong—" said Rotha, as she had spoken before.
"Love makes people strong. And Jesus will help the weak, if they trust him, to do anything they have to do."
"You know I am not a Christian," Rotha answered in the same matter-of- fact way.
"Suppose you do not let that be true after to-day."
There was another silence.
"I am ready to go, Mr. Digby," Rotha said.
"And you will be a woman, and wise, and quiet?"
"I don't know!"
Mr. Digby thought it was not best to press matters further. He put Rotha into the wagon again and drove back to the hotel. Quiet she was, at any rate, now; he did not even see any more tears; but alas, of all the things in the world which she had been so glad to look at on the way down, she saw nothing on the way back. Driving or sailing, it was all the same; only when Mr. Digby put her into the omnibus at Whitehall he saw a flash of something like terror which crossed her face and left it blanched. But that was all.
He went into the invalid's room at Mrs. Marble's with trepidation. Rotha however was merely less effusive and more hasty than usual in her greetings to her mother, and after a kiss or two turned away "to get her things off," as she said. And when Mrs. Cord unluckily asked her in passing, if she had had a pleasant day? Rotha choked, but managed to get out that it had been "as good as it could be." What she went through in the little hall room which served for closet and wardrobe, no one knew; but Mr. Digby, who stayed purposely till she came back again, was reassured to see that she was perfectly quiet, and that she set about her wonted duties in a grave, collected way, more grave than usual, but quite as methodical. He went away sighing, at the same time with a relieved heart. One of the hard things he had had to do in his life, was over.
Mr. Digby however, as he walked homeward to his hotel, saw the difficulties yet in store for him. How in the world was he to perform his promise of taking care of this wildfire girl? Her aunt surely, would be the fittest person to be intrusted with her. If he only knew what sort of person Mrs. Busby really was, and how much of Mrs. Carpenter's story might have two sides to it? The lady was not in the city, or he would have been tempted to go and see her at once, for the purpose of studying her and gathering information. Nothing of the kind was possible at present; and he could only hope that Mrs. Carpenter's frail life would be prolonged until her sister's return to New York would lift, or might lift, one difficulty out of his path.
No such hope was to be realized. With all that care and kindness could do, the sick woman failed more and more. The great heats weakened her. The drives in the Park were refreshing, but alas, fatiguing, and sometimes had to be relinquished; and this happened again and again. Rotha behaved unexceptionably; was devoted to the service of her mother; untiring, and unselfish, and quiet; "another girl," Mrs. Cord said. Poor child! she was another girl in more ways than one; her fiery brightness of spirits was over, her cheeks grew thin, her eyes had dark rings round them, and their brown depths were heavy with a shadow darker yet. Energetic she was, as ever, but in a more staid and womanly way; the gladness of her doings was gone. Still, Mrs. Carpenter never saw her weep. In the evenings, or in the twilight, when there was nothing particular to be done, the child would nestle close to her mother, lay her head in her lap or rest it against her knee, and sit quiet. Still, at least, if not quiet; Mrs. Carpenter did sometimes fancy that she felt the drawing of a convulsive breath; but if she spoke then to Rotha, Rotha would answer with a specially calm and clear voice; and her mother did not get at her sorrow, if it were that which moved her. And Mrs. Carpenter was too weak now to try.
Mr. Digby came as usual, constantly. It was known to none beside himself, that he staid in town through the hot July and August days for this purpose solely. He saw that his sick friend grew weaker every day, yet he did not expect after all that the end would come so soon as it did. He had yet a lingering notion of bringing the sisters together, when Mrs. Busby should return. He was thinking of this one August afternoon as he approached the house. Mrs. Marble met him in the hall.
"Well, Mr. Digby,—it's all up now!"
The gentleman paused on his way to the stairs and looked his inquiry.
"She aint there. Warn't she a good woman, though!" And Mrs. Marble's face was all quivering, and some big tears fell from the full eyes.
"Was?" said Mr. Digby. "You do not mean—"
"She's gone. Yes, she's gone. And I guess she's gone to the good land; and I guess she aint sorry to be free; but—I'm sorry!"
For a few minutes the kind little woman hid her face in her apron, and sadly blotched with tears the apron was when she took it down.
"It's all over," she repeated. "At two o'clock last night, she just slipped off, with no trouble at all. And the house does feel as lonely as if fifty people had gone out of it. I never see the like o' the way I miss her. I'd got to depend on her living up there, and it was good to think of it; there warn't nonoise, more'n if nobody had been up there; but if I aint good myself and I don't think I be—I do love to have good folks round. Shewasgood. I never see a better. It's been a blessin' to the house ever since she come into it; and I always said so. An' she's gone!"
"Where is Rotha?"
"Rotha! she's up there. I guess wild horses wouldn't get her away. I tried; I tried to get her to come down and have some breakfast with me; but la! she thinks she can live on air; or I suppose she don't think about it."
"How is she?"
"Queer. She is always a queer child. I can't make her out. And I wanted to consult you about her, sir; what's to be done with Rotha? who'll take care of her? She's just an age to want care. She'll be as wild as a hawk if she's let loose to manage herself."
"I thought she was very quiet."
"Maybe, up stairs. But just let anybody touch her down here, in a way she don't like, and you'd see the sparks fly! If you want to know how, just take and knock a firebrand against the chimney back."
"Who would touch her, here?" asked the gentleman.
"La! nobody, except with a question maybe, or a bit of advice. I shouldn't like to take hold of her any other way. I never did see a more masterful piece of human nature, of fourteen years old or any other age. She aint a bad child at all; I'm not meaning that; but her mother let her have her own way, and I guess she couldn't help it. It'll be worse for Rotha now, for the world aint like that spring chair you had fetched for her poor mother. You've been an angel of mercy in that room, sure enough."
Mr. Digby passed the good woman and began to ascend the stairs.
"I wanted to ask you about Rotha," Mrs. Marble persisted, speaking up over the bannisters, "because, if that was the best, I would take her myself and bring her up to my business. I don't know who is to manage things now, or settle anything."
"I will," said Mr. Digby. "Thank you, Mrs. Marble; I will see you again."
"'Thank you, Mrs. Marble, I don't want you,' that means," said the little woman as she retreated to her own apartments. "There's somebody else a little bit masterful, I expect. Well, it's all right for the men, I s'pose, at least if they take a good turn; any way, we can't help it; but for a girl that aint fifteen yet,—it aint so agreeable. And poor child! who'll have patience with her now?"
Meanwhile Mr. Digby went up stairs and softly opened the door of the sitting room. For some time ago, since Mrs. Carpenter became more feeble, he had insisted on her having her old sleeping apartment again, other quarters being found or made for Mrs. Cord in the house. Mrs. Cord had naturally assumed the duties of her profession, which was that of a nurse; for the sake of which, knowing that they would be needed, Mr. Digby had first introduced her here.
At the window of the sitting room, looking out into the street, Rotha was sitting listlessly. No one else was in the room. She turned her head when she heard Mr. Digby's footsteps, and the face he saw then smote his heart. It was such a changed face; wan and pale, with the rings round the eyes that come of excessive weeping, and a blank, dull expression in the eyes themselves which was worse yet. She did not move, nor give any gesture of greeting, but looked at the young man entering as if neither he nor anything else in the world concerned her.
Mr. Digby felt then, what everybody with a heart has felt at one time or another, that the office of comforter is the most difficult in the world. In one thing at least he imitated Job's friends; he was silent. He came close up to the girl and stood there, looking down at her. But she turned her wan face away from him and looked out of the window again. She looked, but he was sure she saw nothing. He did not venture to touch her; he saw that she was not open to the least token of tenderness; such a token would surely turn her apathetic calm into irritation. Perhaps even his standing there had some such effect; for after a little while, Rotha said,
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Digby?"
He sat down, and waited. However, people do not live in these days to be several hundred years old; and proportionately, seven days of silence would be more of that sort of sympathy than can be shewn since Job's time. Yet what to say, Mr. Digby was profoundly doubtful. Finding nothing that would do, of his own, he took his little Testament from his pocket, and turning the leaves aimlessly came upon the eleventh chapter of the Gospel of John. He began at the beginning and read slowly and quietly on till he came to the words,
'"Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.
"'Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.'—"
"Please don't, Mr. Digby!" said Rotha, who after a few verses had buried her face in her hands.
"Don't what?"
"Don't read any more."
"Why not?"
"I know how it goes on. I know what he did. But he will not do that— here."
"Yes, he will. Not immediately, but by and by."
"I don't care for by and by."
"Yes you do, Rotha. By and by the Lord Jesus will come again; and when he comes he will send his angels to gather up and bring to him all his people who are then living, scattered about in the world, and at the same time all his people who once lived and have died shall be raised up. Then will come your dear mother, with the rest, in beauty and glory."
"But," said Rotha, bursting out into violent sobs, "I don't know where I shall be!"—
The paroxysm of tears and sobs that followed, startled Mr. Digby; it was so extreme in its passion beyond anything he had ever seen in his life; even beyond her passion on the sea shore. It seemed as if the girl must almost strangle in her convulsive oppression of breath. He tried soothing words, and he tried authority; and both were as vain as the recoil of waves from a rock. The passion spent itself by degrees, and was succeeded by a more gentle, persistent rain of tears which fell quietly.
"Rotha," said Mr. Digby gravely, "that is not right."
"Very likely," she answered. "How are you going to help it?"
"I cannot; but you can."
"Ican't!" she exclaimed, with almost a cry. "When it comes, I must."
"No, my child; you must learn self-command."
"How can I?" she said doggedly.
"By making it your rule, that you will always do what isright—not what you like."
"It never was my rule."
"Perhaps. But do you mean that it never shall be?"
There followed a long silence, during which Rotha's tears gradually stilled; but she said nothing, and Mr. Digby let her alone. After this time, she rose and came to him and laid one hand half timidly, half confidingly, upon his shoulder.
"Mr. Digby," she said softly, "because I am so wicked, will you get tired and forsake me?"
"Never!" he answered heartily, putting his arm round the forlorn child and drawing her a little nearer. And Rotha, in her forlornness and in the gentle mood that had come over her, laid her head down on his shoulder, or rather in his neck, nestling to him. It was an unconscious, mute appeal to his kindness andforhis kindness; it was a very unconscious testimony of Rotha's trust and dependence on him; it was very child-like, but coming from this girl who was so nearly not a child, it moved the young man strangely. He had no sisters; the feeling of Rotha's silky, thick locks against the side of his face and the clinging appeal of her hand and head on his shoulder, gave him an entirely new sensation. All that was manly in him stirred to meet the appeal, and at the same time Rotha took a suddenly different place in his thoughts and regards. He was glad Mrs. Cord was not there to see; but if she had been, I think he would have done just the same. He drew the girl close to him, and laid his other hand tenderly upon those waving, thick, dark locks of hair.
"I will never forsake you, Rotha. I will never be tired. You shall be like my own little sister; for your mother left you in my charge, and you belong to me now, and to nobody else in the world."
She accepted it quietly, making no response at all; her violent passion had been succeeded by a gentle, subdued mood. Favourable for saying several things and making sundry arrangements; only that just then was not the time that would do. Both of them remained still and silent, Mr. Digby thinking this among other things; poor Rotha was hardly thinking at all, any more than a shipwrecked man just flung ashore by the waves, and clinging to the rock that has saved him from sweeping out to sea again, lie blesses the rock, maybe, but it is no time for considering anything. The one idea is to hold fast; and Rotha mentally did it, with an intensity of trust and clinging that her protector never guessed at.
"Then I must do what you say, now?" she remarked after a while.
"I suppose so," he answered, much struck by this tone of docility.
"I will try, Mr. Digby."
"Will you trust me too, Rotha?"
"For what?"
"I mean, will you trust me that what I do for you, or want you to do, is the best thing to be done?"
Rotha lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Nothing, to-day; by and by, perhaps many things. My question was general."
"Whether I will trust that what you say is the best?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Digby, mightn't you be mistaken?"
"Rotha, might not you? And would it not be more likely?"
Rotha began to reflect that in her past life she had not been wont to give such unbounded trust to anybody; not even to her father, and not certainly to her mother. She had sometimes thought them mistaken; how could she help that? and how could she help it in any other case, if circumstances warranted it? But with the thought of her mother, tears rose again, and she did not speak. Just then Mrs. Cord came in.
"O I am glad you are there, sir!" she began. "I wanted to speak to you, if you please."
Mr. Digby unclosed his arm from about Rotha, and she withdrew quietly to her former station by the window. The other two went into the adjoining room, and there Mrs. Cord received instruction and information as to various points of the arrangements for the next few days.
"And what will I do with Rotha, sir?" she asked finally.
"Do with her? In what respect?"
"She won't eat, sir."
"She will, I fancy, the next time it is proposed to her."
"She's very hard to manage," said Mrs. Cord, shaking her head. "She will have her own way, always."
"Wel—let her have it."
"But other people won't, sir; and I think it's bad for her. She's had it, pretty much, all along; but now—she don't care for what I say, no more'n if I was a post! Nor Mrs. Marble, nor anybody. And is Mrs. Marble going to take her, sir?"
"Not at all. Her mother left her in my care."
"Oh!—" said the good woman, with a rather prolonged accent of mystification and disapprobation; wondering, no doubt, what disposal Mr. Digby could make of her, better than with Mrs. Marble; but not venturing to ask.
"Nothing can be done, till after the funeral," the young man went on."Take all the care of her you can until then. By the way, if you can giveme something to eat, I will lunch here. If you have nothing in the house,I can get something in a few minutes."
Mrs. Cord was very much surprised; however, she assured Mr. Digby that there was ample supply in the house, and went on, still with a mystified and dissatisfied feeling, to prepare and produce it. She knew how, and very nicely an impromptu meal was spread in a few minutes. Mr. Digby meanwhile went out and got some fruit; and then he and Rotha sat down together. Rotha was utterly gentle and docile; did what he bade her and took what he gave her; indeed it was plain the poor child was in sore need of food, which she had had thus far no heart to eat. Mr. Digby prolonged the meal as much as he could, that he might spend the more time with her; and when he went away, asked her to lie down and go to sleep.
Those must be heavy days, he knew, till the funeral was over. What then? It was a question. Mrs. Busby would not be in town perhaps before the end of September; and here it was the middle of August. Near two months of hot weather to intervene. What should he do? He would willingly be out of the city himself; and for Rotha, the spending all these weeks in her mother's old rooms, in August weather, and with Mrs. Cord and Mrs. Marble for companions, did not seem expedient. It would be good for neither body nor mind. But he could not take her to any place of public resort; that would not be expedient either. He pondered and pondered, and was very busy for the next two or three days.
The result of which activity was, that he took rooms in a pleasant house at Washington Heights, overlooking the river, and removed Rotha there, with Mrs. Cord to look after her. But as he himself also took up his abode in the house, Mrs. Cord's supervision was confined to strictly secondary matters. He had his meals in company with Rotha, and was with her most of the time, and was the sole authority to which she was obliged to refer.
It was an infinite blessing to the child, whose heart was very sore, and who stood in need of very judicious handling. And somewhat to Mr. Digby's surprise, it was not a bore to himself. The pleasure of ministering is always a pleasure, especially when the need is very great; it is also a pleasure to excite and to receive affection; and he presently saw, with some astonishment, that he was doing this also. Certainly it was not a thing in the circumstances to be astonished at; and it moved Mr. Digby so, simply because he was so far from thinking of himself in his present plan of action. All the pleasanter perhaps it was, when he saw that the forlorn girl was hanging upon him all the dependence of a very trusting nature, and giving to him all the wealth of a passionate power of loving. This came by degrees.
At first, in a strange place and with new surroundings and utterly changed life, the girl was exceedingly forlorn. The days passed in alternations of violent outbreaks of grief and fits of seeming apathy, which I suppose were simply nature's reaction from overstrain and exhaustion. The violence she rarely shewed in Mr. Digby's presence; Rotha was taking her first lessons in self-command; nevertheless he saw the work that was going on, knew it must be, for a time, and wisely abstained from interference with it. "There is a time to weep"; and he knew it was now; comfort would be mockery. He was satisfied that Rotha should have so much diversion from her sorrow as his presence occasioned; that she should be obliged to meet him at meals, and to behave then with a certain degree of outward calm, and the necessary attention to little matters; all useful in a sort of slow, unnoticed way. Otherwise for a few days he let her alone. But then he began to give her things to do. Lessons were taken up again, by degrees multiplied, until Rotha's time was well filled with occupation. It went very hard at first. Rotha even ventured on a little passive rebellion; even declared she could not study. Mr. Digby shewed her that she could; helped her, led her on, and let her see finally that he expected certain things of her, which she could not neglect without coming to an open rupture with him. That was impossible. Rotha bent her will to do what was required of her; and from that time the difficulty of Mr. Digby's task was over. She began soon to be interested again in what she was about and to make excellent progress. Then Mr. Digby would put himself in a hammock on the piazza or out under a great walnut-tree, and make Rotha read to him, and incite her to talk of what she read; or he would give her lessons in drawing; both occasions of the utmost gratification to Rotha; and when the scorching sun had got low down over the Palisades, he would take her in an easy little vehicle and go for a long drive. So one way and another they came to be together all the time. And after the first miserable days were past, and Rotha had been constrained to busy herself with something besides herself; her mental powers called into vigorous exertion and furnished with an abundant supply of new food; by degrees a sort of enjoyment began to creep into her life again, and grew, and grew. It was a help, that everything was so strange about her. Even her own dress.